


Did someone steal your sweetroll?

by jadelennox



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:26:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadelennox/pseuds/jadelennox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Good mornin', silly!" said the beggar, cheerfully.  "Or is it? Is it a good mornin'? Is it evenin'? Is it bad? It's quite a philosophical question, isn't it? Like <i>how many roads must a man walk down?</i> Or <i>would ye like some cheese?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Did someone steal your sweetroll?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cephalopod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephalopod/gifts).



"You know what would be a good sign?" asks the old beggar ask you passed him in the streets of Solitude. " _Free Sweetrolls_!"

You freeze, then turn, Mjoll padding amiably behind you. Last time you heard that rough burr of a voice it had not been that of a beggar.

"My lord," you say, tentatively. "Can I help you with something?" The better part of valor would perhaps be to run and not look back, but cowardice never won better armor or nicer houses. Besides, leaving the Madgod behind you seems ill-advised, at best.

"Good mornin', silly!" said the beggar, cheerfully. "Or is it? Is it a good mornin'? Is it evenin'? Is it bad? It's quite a philosophical question, isn't it? Like _how many roads must a man walk down?_ Or _would ye like some cheese?_

You pause, racking your brain for something safe to say, when the beggar shoves his face into yours and shouts, spittle flying.

"Well, would ye?" he roars. "There's plenty to go around! I've got some edam right here, and my knees are both made of brie. And a gouda mornin' to ye it is!" His laugh sends chills down your spine.

"Er," you begin, intelligently, trying to ignore the sound of Mjoll babbling behind you. Something about her father when she was a little girl? You can't remember; all her stories blend together.

The beggar pulls open a tiny pouch, the size of your fist, no more. Yet somehow, from this pouch he produces: a chair, which he flings to the ground in disgust; a horse; a pile of soul gem fragments, which sparkle and flash in the sun then melt like dew into the grass; seven perfect cabbages; a wheel of edam; and a snow-white fox. "Ah, there ye are, my beauty," he croons into the bag, and withdraws a familiar staff. It's Wabbajack, you know, as sure as you know that Wabbajack is mounted over your bed in Breezehome. "Now," he says to you. "What would you like to be? A skeever? A bear? A jarl?"

"I'm happy staying myself, my lord," you said.

"Really? Why? Don't you get bored? I would. In fact, I am! I'm going to watch a play. Or play a watch. Good bye!" He vanishes.

You don't breathe easy untill you're seven streets away.

That night you discover your sweetroll is missing.


End file.
